


Buried in Stone

by Rubydoll



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 09:21:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubydoll/pseuds/Rubydoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set before the events of The Hobbit. Bofur finds himself contemplating his life so far and makes a decision to change his future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buried in Stone

**Author's Note:**

> As much as possible I've tried to stick to canon but I haven't found much on Bofur, Bombur and Bifur. So where I've made things up, I just hope it fits...

The air is becoming stale and that's the first clue Bofur gets that he's still alive. He spits out a mouthful of grit but knows better than to attempt to move just yet. Must have been quite a rockfall to knock him out. He can't see anything so either he's gone blind or his lamp got smashed. Carefully, he slides his hand across until he feels his thumb touch his nose. He can't see it but he still has a hand and a nose, that's a good start. A few pebbles trickle down the back of his neck and he holds very, very still. 

The worst thing about working in a mine run by men is that they don't have the experience, knowledge or respect that dwarves have of the land. Their mines tend to be more dangerous as they hack their way carelessly into the ground. Actually, no, the worst thing is that they have the arrogance to claim that as a dwarf is half the height of a man, he should earn half the wage. Bofur had pointed out that he was hardly half the height of a man, two thirds at least but had been told that there were plenty of dwarves who would be glad of such a wage. And the height of his hat didn't count. 

He'd tried the same logic when looking for lodgings. It rarely worked. Sometimes the price would be lowered in return for stories of other places they'd visited, things they'd seen, but most did not care much for the world outside of their own village and strangers got charged extra. Especially when they're stranger than what they consider regular folk. 

That's why at his current abode, they share a room; Bofur sleeps top to tail in the bed with his cousin, Bifur, while his brother, Bombur, gets the floor. The last place they were in, Bombur broke the bed. Well, sort of. It was perhaps slightly Bofur's fault for thinking that jumping on him would be a hilarious way to wake him. They probably could have fixed it, but the winter was harsh and they needed firewood. They paid their bill when they left, plus what little extra they could afford, then left town with haste. And at least this place is clean; at one inn, Bofur would wake in the night to find Bifur collecting beetles off the floor and walls. He didn't ask. 

Everything is still, the only sound is his own breath. The others must have fled for he would hear them if they were nearby. He reaches out carefully with his other hand, groping over the rough, gritty rock until his fingers close around the smooth round shaft of his mattock. The metal grates against the stone as he pulls it towards himself. Were he on his back, he might have clasped it to his chest, as dying warriors do their swords. At least he'll be buried in stone. 

His mother is interred in a simple stone coffin. It was the best he could do for her. His father was burned at Azanulbizar, and he has little memory of him. But he remembers his mother well though, sadly, those last days more than anything. Bombur was still a child then - their mother had cuddled him and kissed his cheek before telling him to go outside and play. She did not want to burden him with the memory of her dying, but nor could she face her last moments alone. Not that Bofur would have left her even if it had been her wish. She'd stroked his face, regretting that she should make him so sad. She did not fear death; her only concern was for her sons. Bofur smiled as he promised her they would be fine, that he would look after Bombur, that she shouldn't waste what little strength she had left on worry. He saved his tears until after she had passed so that her last memory would be of her son smiling.

Bracing his forearm against the ground, Bofur tries to move. Inching forwards he hits his head against a jagged bit of rock so he decides not to try that again. Backwards is it, then. But going back the way you came isn't always the best plan, especially when the cave-in means it's no longer the same as it was. The gap he's wedged in is too tight to allow him to use his legs since the only motion he can manage is with them splayed out like a frog. He shuffles back a little but the space is getting narrower and he finds he's scuffing the floor but not moving. He stops, taking a few panting breaths. The key is to stay calm; he can work this out.

There had been a moment close to blind panic when he had first truely realised that he was alone with his little brother and responsible for him. It was the wake and although the mood was still sombre, some had begun to recount happy memories of his mother and a few smiles were creeping in. Bombur didn't understand how anyone could be laughing and had run outside. Bofur had gone after him, his instinct being to take him to their mother because she would be able to comfort him. But she couldn't do that any more. So he'd sat on the steps, holding his little brother tightly, telling him not to cry, that he should smile because their mum would not want them to be sad. And as he rocked him gently he tried to ignore the terror building within him. He wasn't ready for this, he didn't know the first thing about looking after himself, never mind his little brother. It was too much. He caught hold of himself. If he could break it down, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. What did they need? A roof over their head? The rent was paid until the end of next month, thanks to their landlady's generosity. They'd need money but Bofur could work, he already did little jobs for a few extra coins and made toys to sell when he had the materials. So really, all he had to do was keep Bombur fed and make sure he was in bed at a sensible time every night. That's all. He wiped his brother's face with his jerkin and gave him a smile. "Come on, you'll feel better once you've had something to eat."

It wasn't easy. Bofur would leave Bombur to help their landlady out in the kitchens while he went to find work. There were plenty of things a young strong dwarf could do and Bofur learned that a smile and a bit of cocky charm would usually work in his favour. But these odd jobs paid little and Bofur was gradually whittling away at the meagre savings their mother had left them by selling everything she had that was of any value. And he knew that their landlady, who had been so kind to them, had been asked by her daughter to move in with her; he didn't want her to stay just because of them. So when his cousin Bifur visited while passing through and mentioned that there was work to be had in the mines a couple of days travel away, Bofur decided it was time to leave.

Had the mine been run by dwarves, he would have been turned away. Mining is a dangerous and serious business and they will not risk their children before they are grown-up and wise enough to learn the necessary skills. But men, who seem to breed like rabbits, appear content to let even their own children work down there, for a pittance, should their need be great enough. But they assumed Bofur was older than he was - or rather, they assumed he was a mature adult dwarf.

The work was hard, but Bofur learned quickly, the older dwarves teaching him, understanding that necessity must have driven him there. He found cheap lodgings along with Bifur, ensuring his brother had a roof over his head and a bed to sleep in, and he always made sure Bombur had food on his plate even if it meant his own was a little light. Sometimes when he had a few coins to spare, he'd join the others in the pub after work and gradually got better at earning a free drink. He could spin a tale, and carry a tune and make himself pleasant enough company. He liked being around other dwarves, it made him feel as though he belonged. Once Bombur was a little older, he began joining them too though he preferred to sit quietly and listen.

It wasn't to last, however, as the mine's treasures began to run dry and the foreman started laying them off. Bofur took to crafting toys with Bifur but the struggling village had no money for them. So they moved on, travelling wherever there was work or a market. Bofur put his brother in charge of cooking for all of them, so that he'd feel useful and have something to do. It helped that the young dwarf had a keen interest in food and a fair talent for cooking. True he was getting fatter than ever but in a world of men, what he lacked in height he could make up in girth. Besides, Bofur didn't really want him going down the mines.

Because mines are dangerous places. You might crawl in a crack because, as a dwarf, you're the smallest there, and find the whole lot comes down on you. And everyone leaves, saving their own skin because they assume you're dead. Wonderful. There seems little point in shouting; he won't be heard through the rock. He's going to be an interesting skeleton waiting to be found years from now - with any luck he'll drop on someone, teeth chattering as his skull rolls across the floor. Probably still wearing his hat.

Grunting as the jagged rock digs into his back, he pushes out with his mattock, trying to find a way to brace it so he can shove himself backwards. There. It catches and he grips it tightly, wriggling to bring his feet together. Then he pushes. He feels his jerkin rip as he moves an inch or so. It's working. Moving his hand down, he shoves harder but this time it is the mattock that gives way and there's a terrible clatter of stones.

Travellers with news were always greeted warmly and this one had a particularly interesting story to tell. It seemed that the legendary Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain was looking to lead a quest to reclaim Erebor. He knew that other parties would no doubt be drawn to the promise of gold should they believe it lay unguarded so the mission was to be kept secret and low key. But he was looking for strong, brave dwarves to join him, and offered a handsome reward. As well as free beer. And as they talked, Bofur remembered the old song that they hadn't sung in an age;

_Far over the misty mountains cold_  
 _To dungeons deep and caverns old_  
 _We must away ere break of day,_  
 _To claim our long forgotten gold._

He hums the tune softly, occasionally whispering the words to the darkness. He's still clutching the mattock, but, pinned, he can't move. He hopes Bifur will look after his brother.

"Bofur? Bofur!"

At first Bofur thinks he's imagining it but the voice continues, "Bombur? I'm stuck, I can't get out!"

He hears the sound of rubble being cleared then something tugging at his bootlaces before finally getting a grip around his ankle.

"I'm stuck fast, Bombur, you won't be able to-"

But he's underestimated his brother's strength. Or perhaps it's that he throws his not-inconsiderable weight back as he hauls him out. Rocks tumble but Bombur keeps pulling until his brother is free, grazed and clothes torn, but in one piece.

"Are you all right?" Bombur lifts him to his feet and envelopes him in a hug. For a second, it's all Bofur can do just to cling on, feeling somewhat unsteady. His brother is warm and soft and a welcome comfort after the cold hard rock that had almost been his tomb. "I heard people talking about the cave-in so I came to see if you were all right. They told me you were lost."

"No, I knew exactly where I was," Bofur kisses the bald patch on the top of his brother's head and steps back, testing his feet. Though stiff and sore, he decides he'll live. He stoops to pick up his mattock, noticing that his hand is ripped to shreds because he'd clung on to it. But he'll heal and a good tool is expensive! "Is the rest of the way out clear?"

"Clear enough for me to get through," says Bombur with a smile.

Bofur laughs. "That'll do then!" He puts a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Listen, I got to thinking while I was stuck and had nothing better to do. Maybe if Thorin Oakenshield is still after volunteers, we should sign up. It's got to be better than this."

Bombur's brow creases. "You said that quest would be like a wedding - months and months before finally getting there, then over in the blink of an eye."

"Really? I said that?"

"You were rather cruder."

"Oh. Well it might not be."

"Winged furnace, you said. Fastest way to become a pile of ash."

"All right, I know! I know. But what if the dragon really is dead already or by some miracle we kill it. We'd be set for life. No more wandering like vagrants - we could have a home. And you could eat as much as you like, and pay someone to cook it for you. We could finally have something of our own. If nothing else, we'll get to travel a bit in the company of fine warrior dwarves, have an adventure and a few beers - it'll be fun!"

Bombur fiddles with his plait as he considers this. None of the other dwarves had thought that Thorin's idea was a good one. And at the time, Bofur had agreed with them. But it's true that their life isn't easy and maybe they have a chance for something better. Thorin must have a plan, something he can't reveal to anyone until the right time. And Bofur suddenly seems keen. "If you want to go, I'll follow you."

Bofur hugs his brother again. "No doubt Bifur will come along too - he'd love the opportunity to nut a dragon! And at least if it eats us, we'll be famous and they'll sing songs about our foolhardy quest across the land!"

Shaking his head, Bombur can't help but smile. His brother is making light of it but even though the dragon could be deadly, the mines can be too. So why not take a high stakes gamble?

Tugging on his brother's plait, Bofur grins. "Come on. Let's go home."


End file.
